Moreta

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Permission has never been denied. I always understood that everything we need was taken over in the Crossing. Now, what are the symptoms of the disease that’s spreading?” Moreta recalled the bloody discharge from the dead runner’s nose, the only external sign of its mortal distress.

  Sh’gall stared uncomprehendingly for a long moment, then collected his thoughts. “Fever. Yes, there’s fever.” He glanced at her for approval.

  “There are many kinds of fevers, Sh’gall.”

  “Berchar will know, then. Fever, Capiam said, and headache and a dry cough. Why should that be enough to kill people and animals?”

  “What remedies did Capiam specify?”

  “How could he specify when he doesn’t know what the plague is? They’ll find out. They’ve only to search hard enough. Oh, he said to treat the symptoms empirically.”

  “Did he mention an incubation period? We can’t just stay quarantined in the Weyr forever, you know.”

  “I know. But Capiam said we mustn’t congregate. He really tore into Ratoshigan for the overcrowding in his Hold.” Sh’gall grinned unpleasantly. “We have been warning the Holders, but would they listen? They’ll pay for it now.”

  “Sh’gall, Capiam must have told you how long it takes the disease to incubate.”

  The Weyrleader had finished the wine. He frowned and rubbed at his face. “I’m tired. I waited half the night for the Masterhealer at Ratoshigan’s. He said it incubates in two to four days. He told me to find out where everyone has been and to order them not to congregate. The Weyr has its duties, too. I’ve got to get some sleep. Since you’re up, you make sure everyone knows about this. Tell them all just what they may have caught yesterday.” He gave her a hard, warning stare. “I don’t want to find out when I wake up that you’ve jollied people along.”

  “An epidemic is a far different affair from reassuring a rider with a wing-damaged dragon.”

  “And find Berchar. I want to know exactly what K’lon was ill of. K’lon didn’t know, and Berchar wasn’t in his quarters!” Sh’gall didn’t approve of that. Fully male and hold-bred, Sh’gall had never developed any compassion or understanding of the green and blue riders and their associations.

  “I’ll speak to Berchar.” She had a fairly good idea she’d find him with S’gor, a green rider.

  “And warn the Weyr?” He rose, groggy with fatigue and the wine he’d taken on an empty stomach. “And no one’s to leave the Weyr and no one’s to come in. You be sure that the watchrider passes on that order!” He waggled an admonitory finger at her.

  “It’s a bit late to cry Thread when the burrow’s set, isn’t it?” she replied bitterly. “The Gathers should have been canceled.”

  “No one knew how serious this was yesterday. You transmit my orders straightaway!”

  Still clutching her fur around him, Sh’gall stumbled from the weyr. Moreta watched him go, her head throbbing. Why hadn’t they canceled the Gathers? All those people at Ruatha! And dragonriders from every Weyr in and out of Ista and Ruatha. What was it S’peren had told her—sickness in Igen, Keroon, and Telgar? But he hadn’t said anything about an epidemic. Or deaths. And that runner of Vander’s? Had Alessan mentioned a new runner from Keroon in Vander’s hold? Thinking of the long picket lines on Ruatha’s race flat, Moreta groaned. And all those people! How infectious would that runner have been at the moment of his death, when anxious riders and helpful spectators had crowded around it? She shouldn’t have interfered. It was not her business!

  You are distressed, Orlith said, her eyes whirling in a soothing blue. You should not be distressed by a runner-beast.

  Moreta leaned against her dragon’s head, stroking the near eye ridge, calming her anxiety with the soft feel of Orlith’s skin.

  “It’s not just the runnerbeast, my love. A sickness is in the land. A very dangerous sickness. Where’s Berchar?”

  With S’gor. Asleep. It is very early. And foggy.

  “And yesterday was so beautiful!” She remembered Alessan’s strong arms about her in the toss dance, the challenge in his light-green eyes.

  You enjoyed yourself! Orlith said with deep satisfaction.

  “Yes, indeed I did.” Moreta sighed ruefully.

  Nothing will change yesterday, Orlith remarked philosophically. So now you must deal with today. As Moreta chuckled over dragon logic, the queen added, Leri wishes to speak with you since you are awake.

  “Yes, and Leri might have heard about an epidemic like this. She might also know how I’m going to break the news to the Weyr the day before Fall.”

  Since Sh’gall had gone off with her cloak, Moreta slipped into her riding jacket. Orlith had been correct, as always, about the weather. As Moreta left her weyr and started up the steps to Leri’s, the fog was swirling down from the ranges. Thread would Fall tomorrow, fog or not, so she devoutly hoped the weather would clear, if the wind failed to clear the mist, the possibility of collision would be trebled. Dragons could see through fog but their riders couldn’t. Sometimes riders did not heed their dragons and found themselves in one-sided arguments with bare ridges.

  Orlith, please tell the watchrider that no one, dragonrider or holder, is permitted into the Weyr today. And no one is to leave it, either. The order is to be passed to each watchrider.

  Who would visit the Weyr in such fog? Orlith asked. And the day after two Gathers.

  “Orlith?”

  I have relayed the message. Balgeth is too sleepy to question why. Orlith sounded suspiciously meek.

  “Good day to you, Holth,” Moreta said courteously as she entered the old Weyrwoman’s quarters.

  Holth turned her head briefly in acknowledgment before closing her eyelids and snuggling her head more firmly into her forelegs. The old queen was nearly bronze with age.

  Beside her, on the edge of the stone platform that was the dragon’s couch, Leri sat on a heap of pillows, her body swathed in thick woven rugs. Leri said she slept beside Holth as much for the warmth the dragon had stored up in her from so much sunning over so many Turns as to save herself the bother of moving. The last few Turns, Leri’s joints rebelled against too much use. Repeatedly Moreta and Master Capiam had urged the woman to take up the standing invitation to remove to the south to Ista Weyr. Leri adamantly refused, declaring that she wasn’t a tunnel snake to change her skin: She’d been born in Fort Weyr and intended to live out her Turn with those few old friends who remained, and in her own familiar quarters.

  “Hear you enjoyed yourself past the first watch,” Leri said. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Was that why Sh’gall was berating you?”

  “He wasn’t berating. He was bemoaning. An epidemic’s loose on Pern.”

  Concern wiped the amusement from Leri’s face. “What? We’ve never had an epidemic on Pern. Not that I ever heard about. Nor read either.”

  Her movement restricted by her joint ailment, Leri kept the Weyr’s records to allow Moreta more time for her nursing. Leri often browsed through the older Records, for “the gossip,” she said.

  “Shards! I’d hoped you’d read something somewhere. Something encouraging! Sh’gall’s in a rare taking and this time with due cause.”

  “Perhaps I haven’t read far enough back for exciting things like epidemics.” Leri tossed Moreta a pillow from her pile and pointed imperiously at the small wooden stool set aside for visitors. “We’re a healthy lot, by and large. Tend to break a lot of bones, Threadscores, occasional fevers, but nothing on a continent-wide scale. What sort of disease is it?”

  “Master Capiam has not yet identified it.”

  “Oh, I don’t like the sound of that!” Leri rolled her eyes. “And, by the Egg, there were two Gathers yesterday, weren’t there?”

  “The danger was not fully appreciated. Master Capiam and Talpan—”

  “The Talpan who was a friend of yours?”

  “Yes, well, he’s been an animal healer, you know, and he realized that the feline they had on display at Ista was the disea
se carrier.”

  “The feline from the Southern Continent?” Leri clacked her tongue. “And some bloody fool has been taking that creature here, there, and everywhere, showing it off, so the disease is also here, there, and everywhere! With riders, including our noble Weyrleader, all going to have a little peek!”

  “Sh’gall’s story was a little incoherent but he’d taken Lord Ratoshigan to Ista to see the feline; Capiam had arrived from seeing what ailed Igen Sea Hold, Keroon, and Telgar—”

  “Great Faranth!”

  Moreta nodded. “Ista, of course. Then Ratoshigan had an urgent drum message summoning him back because of illness, so Sh’gall conveyed him and Master Capiam.”

  “How did the sickness get there so fast? The beast only got as far as Ista!”

  “Yes, but it was first at Keroon Beasthold to be identified by Master Sufur and no one realized that it was carrying sickness—”

  “And because it’s been an open winter, they’ve been shipping runners all over the continent!” Leri concluded, and the two women looked at each other gravely.

  “Talpan told Capiam that dragons are not affected.”

  “We should be grateful for small mercies, I suppose,” Leri said.

  “And Fall’s tomorrow. We’ll have that over with before any of us fall sick. Incubation’s two to four days.”

  “That’s not a big mercy, is it? But you weren’t at Ista.” Leri frowned.

  “No, Sh’gall was. However, a runner fell in the second race at Ruatha and it shouldn’t have . . .”

  Leri nodded, her comprehension complete. “And naturally you were close enough to go have a look. It died?”

  “And shouldn’t have. Its owner had just received some new stock from Keroon.”

  “Hooooo!” Leri rolled her eyes and sighed in resignation. “So, what medication does Capiam recommend? Surely he must have some idea if he’s been flipping across the continent?”

  “He recommends that we treat the symptoms empirically until he finds out just what it is and what the specific medicine is.”

  “And what is it we treat empirically?”

  “Headache, fever, and a dry cough.”

  “They don’t kill.”

  “Until now.”

  “I don’t like this at all,” Leri said, pulling her shawl across her shoulders and hunching into its warmth. “Though mind, we’d a harper here—though L’mal shooed him off for he was doleful—who used to say ‘there’s nothing new under the sun.’ A slim hope in these circumstances, but I don’t think we can ignore any avenues of exploration. You just bring me up more Records. Say the ones starting the last Pass. Fortunately I hadn’t planned on going anywhere this morning.”

  As Leri only left her weyr to fly with the queens’ wing, Moreta offered her a smile for her attempt to lighten the bad tidings.

  “Sh’gall’s left it to you to tell the Weyr?”

  “Those who are awake. And Nesso . . .”

  Leri snorted. “That’s the right one to start with. Be sure she gets the facts tight or we’ll have hysteria as well as hangovers by noontime. And since you’re up, would you fix my wine for me, please, Moreta?” Leri shifted uneasily. “The change in the weather does get to my joints.” She saw Moreta’s reluctance. “Look, if you fix it, then you’ll know I haven’t exceeded the proper amount of fellis juice.” Eyes sparkling with challenge, she cocked her head at the younger Weyrwoman. Moreta did not like Leri to use much fellis juice and contended that if Leri went south where the warmer weather would ease her condition, she wouldn’t need fellis juice at all.

  But Moreta did not hesitate. The clammy cold made her feel stiff so it would certainly be making Leri miserable.

  “Now, tell me, did you enjoy the Gather?” Leri asked as Moreta measured the fellis juice into her tall goblet.

  “Yes, I did. And I got down on the race flats and watched most of the races from a very good vantage point with Lord Alessan.”

  “What? You monopolized Alessan when his mother and the mother of every eligible girl able to creep or crawl to that Gather . . .”

  Moreta grinned. “He did his duty with the girls on the dance square. And we,” she added, smiling more broadly than ever, “managed to stay upright in a toss dance!”

  Leri grinned back at Moreta. “Alessan could be quite a temptation. I assume he’s got over the death of that wild one he married. Sad, that! Now, his grandfather, Leef’s sire . . . Ah, no, you’ll have heard all that.” Moreta had not, but Leri’s comment meant she was unlikely to. “I always chat Alessan up while the ground crews are reporting. Always has a flask of Benden white with him.”

  “He does, does he?”

  Leri laughed at Moreta’s alert tone.

  “Don’t tell me he tried it on you, too, at his own Gather?” Leri chortled and then assumed a masculine pitch to her voice, “I just happen to have one skin of Benden white . . .” And she laughed all the more as Moreta reacted to the mimicry. “He’s got a full cave of ’em, I’d say. However, I’m glad Leef gave him the succession. He’s got more guts than that elder brother of his-never could remember the man’s name. Never mind. Alessan’s worth three of him. Did you know that Alessan was Searched?”

  “And that Lord Leef refused.” Moreta frowned. Alessan would have made a superb bronze rider.

  “Well, if the lad was to succeed, Leef was entitled to refuse. That was twelve Turns ago. Before you arrived from Ista. Alessan would have Impressed a bronze, I’m sure.”

  Moreta nodded, bringing Leri her fellis juice and wine.

  “Your health!” she said ironically, raising the cup to Moreta before she took a careful sip. “Hmmm. Do get some rest today, Moreta,” she said more briskly. “Two hours’ sleep is not enough when there’s Fall tomorrow and who knows how many dragonriders will do stupid things thanks to two Gathers, let alone Capiam’s unidentified disease.”

  “I’ll get some rest once I’ve organized a few matters.”

  “I sometimes wonder if we did right, L’mal and I, monopolizing your healing arts for the Weyr.”

  “Yes!” Moreta’s quick reply was echoed by Holth and Orlith.

  “Well, ask a silly question!” Leri was reassured, and she patted Holth’s cheek.

  “Quite. Now, what Records should I send you?”

  “The oldest ones you can find that are still legible.”

  Moreta scooped up the pillow Leri had loaned her and threw it back to the old Weyrwoman, who caught it deftly.

  “And eat something!” Leri shouted as Moreta turned and left the weyr.

  Wisps of fog were infiltrating the valleys, oozing toward the western rim of the Bowl, and the watchrider was standing within the forearms of his dragon, finding what protection he could from the elements. Moreta shuddered. She didn’t like the northern fogs even after ten Turns, but she hadn’t liked the humidity of the southern latitude at Ista any better. And it was far too late to return to the comfortable climate of the highlands of Keroon. Was the disease in the highlands, too? And Talpan diagnosing it! How strange that he had been in her mind yesterday. Would the epidemic bring them together again?

  She gave hersçlf a little shake and began the descent to the floor of the Bowl. First she would see K’lon, then find Berchar, even if it meant invading the privacy of S’gor’s weyr.

  K’lon was asleep when she reached the infirmary and there was not so much as a bead of fever perspiration on his brow or upper lip. His fair skin was a healthy color, wind-darkened where the eyepieces left the cheeks bare. Berchar had attended K’lon during the initial days of his fever so Moreta saw no point in rousing the blue rider again.

  Folk were moving about the Bowl by then, swirling fog about them as they began the preparations for the next day’s Threadfall. The shouts and laughter of the weyrlings filling firestone sacks was muted by the mist. Moreta thought to check with Weyrlingmaster F’neldril to find out how many of the weyrlings had drawn convey duty the day before. A rare animal in Ista might well have attra
cted some of them despite their strict orders to convey and return directly.

  “Put some energy into the task, lads. Here’s the Weyrwoman to see the sacks are properly filled for tomorrow’s Fall.”

  Many Fort dragonriders insisted that F’neldril was the one rider all Fort dragons obeyed, a holdover from weyrling days under his tutelage. He did have an uncanny instinct, Moreta thought, if he could see her through the rolling fog. He appeared right beside her, a craggy-faced man with a deep Thread scar from forehead to ear, and the lobe missing, but she had always liked him and he was one of her first friends at Fort Weyr.

  “You’re well, Weyrwoman? And Orlith thrives? She’s near clutching now, isn’t she?”

  “More weyrlings for you to tyrannize, F’neldril?”

  “Me?” He pointed his long curved thumb at his chest in mock dismay. “Me? Tyrannize?”

  But the old established exchange did not lift her spirits. “There’s trouble, F’neldril . . .”

  “Which one?” he demanded.

  “No, not your weyrlings. There’s a disease of epidemic proportion spreading over the southeast and coming west. I’ll want to know how many of the weyrlings were on convey duty yesterday and where they took their passengers, and how long they stayed on the ground at Ista. The entire Weyr will be answering the same questions. If we are to prevent the epidemic’s spreading here, we’ll need to know.”

  “I’ll find out exactly. Never fear on that count, Moreta!”

  “I don’t, but we must avoid panic even though the situation is very serious. And Leri would like to have some of the oldest Records, the still legible ones, brought to her weyr.”

  “What’s the Masterhealer doing then with his time, and all those apprentices of his, that we have to do his job for him?”

  “The more to look the quicker to find; the sooner the better,” Moreta replied. F’neldril could be so parochial.

  “Leri’ll have her Records as soon as the lads have finished sacking firestone and had a bit of a wash. Wouldn’t do to have stone-dust messing up our Records—You there, M’barak, that sack’s not what I’d call full. Top it off.”